Thank-You Note, 30 Years Later

Dear Danny,

Thank you for the journal.

It had,

until last month,

Lay dormant in its box--

corners broken,

worn flat

from too many moves.

Thank you for the glimpse

inside

my 13-year-old mind.

The self-portrait

of a not-quite child,

not-quite young woman,

standing on the brink

of Jewish adulthood.

The pink-festooned pages on which I dutifully recorded

"Favorite Movie: Back to the Future

Favorite Actress: Molly Ringwald"

(in pencil, in case I changed my mind)

remain mercifully smudge free.

My tentative scrawling

and belabored cursive

detail my thoughts

before, during and after

the event itself.

A thoughtful present then—

A treasured blessing now,

as I face

the same milestone

30 years later

With my not-quite child,

not-quite young woman,

standing on the brink

of her own Jewish adulthood.

She asks, "What were you feeling?"

I can point to the words,

line by line,

a secular D'var Torah

providing insight and commentary

into the scrolls of our own

Book of Life.

What a gift.

Your friend,

Allyson

They really want a fish

My daughter, the future lawyer/writer, just handed me a list of ten reasons why she and her brother should be allowed to get a fish as a pet. I have had a strong "no pet" policy in the house since I have had my own domicile; I figure I have enough to be getting on with, cleaning up after my two children and my husband who is not the tidiest person on the planet. Anything with hair is definitely out. We entertained the idea of a hermit crab for a time, until last summer, when she learned that she would have to handle the crab to bathe it. Bye-bye hermit crab. Here are my daughter's Reasons for a fish (with her spelling and grammar intact):

1. We can show you how responisble we are.
2. They are colorful.
3. They can keep you entertained.
4. We can expeirence the fish so we know if we should get them when we have kids.
5. We are going to keep bugging you for one.
6. It would teach mommy to love pets.
7. We can relive the barfing fish everyday.
8. It will teach us how to take care of a pet.
9. Most of my freinds have pets.
10. If we get 2 fish will have somone to keep him company.

While #7 made me smile (a throwback to a fish tank in a restaurant on summer vacation two years ago), I have to marvel at her skillful use of rhetoric in #4 and #5, with the appeal to emotion on #10. Sadly, I am not swayed by the bandwagon on #9.

Since she has agreed to clean the tank (I don't think she has a clue what she is in for), we will be adding an unknown quantity of fish to our household in the near future. I figure if she and her brother drop the ball, there will be natural consequences that I can live with (flush), and everyone will learn a lesson. Who knows, I might be pleasantly surprised (#6, #8, #1).

For Natalie

I received word yesterday that my father's first cousin was moved to hospice. She has been fighting cancer that has now moved into her colon and caused a perforation. Her sons and grandchildren and with her and giving her the care she needs.

I wrote a small piece to capture what I will remember about Natalie, because she, like all of us, deserves to be remembered.

******************

Natalie

In the summer, we'd see the wavy brown hair

Elegantly perched above your sun visor,

Neat wrap skirt tied

On your slim hip,

Tan, freckled shoulders

Reflecting the sunlight;

Pausing just a moment

While making the turn.

The golf spikes striking concrete

Would foreshadow your voice

As you turned to greet us,

Always smiling,

Always wanting to know the whole of everything

In five minutes or more.

In the fall, you'd arrive in all your finery,

The perfect earrings falling

Next to a perfectly framed face,

Icing-drop cookies in hand,

With stories to tell

And questions to pose.

Golden bronze-glinted fingers

Flew, here and away,

To punctuate tales of summers

And children

And deals

And gatherings gone by

And family.

AWJ

10/22/13

On Contracts and the End of the World

It has been a banner summer so far, replete with a large-scale violent attack (see: Aurora, CO) that makes you question everything from gun control to racial profiling in the media, and a weather-related inconvenience (see: derecho) that gives you new-found appreciation for climate control.

Here in our little corner of the world, we have also experienced one broken arm, two heads of lice, and three sore throats (one necessitating antibiotics). Is it the end of the world? According to my son, it has to be. Witness:

(Scene: Morning in the Jacob household. Children are running amok, avoiding clothes and toothbrushes. Husband is looking for clean laundry. I am on computer but soon give up to pack lunches for children. Sam, age 6, enters my office with The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe in his hand.)

Sam: Mommy, can I take this to camp today?
Me: Why?
Sam: So I can read it. So I won't be bored.
(long beat)
Me: Sweetie, I think this one is a little tough for you to read on your own. Why don't you take something else to read?
Sam: (whining) Liiiiiike whaaaaaaat?
Me: I don't know. Ask your sister for a suggestion. I've got to go pack your lunch.

Sam: Sydney, what book can I take to camp to read?
Syd: I don't know. Look on your shelf.
Sam: I've read all of those a million times. Can I take Diary of a Wimpy Kid?
Syd: But it's mine.
Sam: I just want to borrow it. J--- is reading it.
Syd. Hmmm. Hold on a sec.

(Long beat, as I reenter the picture and overhear:)

Syd: Just sign here.
Sam: Okay.
Me: Wait, wait. What are you signing?
Syd. Just a contract. It's nothing.
Me: Wait a minute. Let me see that.
Marc: Sam, don't sign anything without reading the fine print.
Me: Don't sign anything from your sister without showing it to me first.
Syd: It's too late. He already signed.
Me: Give me that.
Syd: No!

(Scrappling for paper ensues. I win and read contract, replete with cost of book and ISBN. I immediately tear up contract.)

Syd and Sam: No!
Me: No way.
Syd: He signed!
Me: Now it's null and void.
Sam: I can't take the book?
Me: No. Because you promised that if you lost it, got it wet, or basically breathed on it, you would buy her a new one.
Syd: So?
Me: So?! You don't put a contract on your brother.
Sam: But now I don't have anything to read! You said I couldn't take The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and you told me to find another book. So I found Diary of a Wimpy Kid and now you won't let me take that either. And everyone in camp is bringing books to read, and I won't have one and I'm going to be bored! It's not fair!

(Commence tantrum that lasts 10 minutes, escalates, and involves counting and a timeout. He repeats some variation of the above lines, and ends with the following phrase, repeated over and over, as he is escorted, crying, to the car to go to camp:)

Sam: It's got to be the end of the world! It's got to be! It's got to be the end of the world!

(End. Finally.)

Don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled that he wants to read. I'm slightly perturbed that he is "bored" at camp and feels the need to find ways to amuse himself, but of all the ways he could do so, books are definitely at the top of my list.

But the end of the world? C'mon, kid. I'll see your tantrum and raise you a derecho. Just don't tell Pepco!

From today's journal:

It is amazing how clear the solutions to problems become when I look at them from a position of love, not fear. Fear never did anything for me except hold me back and make me eat.

I am done with fear.

A Thought

I just want someone to look into those big brown eyes and say, honestly, "You matter. You. Matter."

Journey On

(I hesitated for a moment on capitalizing the second word in the title, but my editor brain said, "Capitalize the first and last words in a title," so there you have it.)

I went back to the beginning of my blog today and realized that I started writing this behemoth before my son was born. He will be seven the first week in August. That's a long time and a lot of words. Seven! Seven. That's substantial in kid years. Although he still thinks his sister has it all over him. He was talking about her impending Bat Mitzvah (in three years!) and said, "Wow, she'll be the only kid in the family that has two numbers [double digits]." He cracks me up. She'll be in double digits in less than a year. But his brain doesn't work that way.

I took him to get his hair cut yesterday. I was watching him in the mirror, watching him as he couldn't watch me, because his eyes were closed and his head was down. His face was a little flushed from the heat, and his skin was tanned from our recent, unplanned trip to the mountains. Every so often, he'd look up and see me staring, catch my eye, and smile at me. His grin would round his cheeks and show his dimples, and the two front teeth that are partly grown in. We'd smile at each other, and the stylist would ask him to put his head back down.

And I'd watch, not seeing my almost seven-year-old, but seeing the 12-month-old sitting up straight in the red metal car, dodging the comb every time the stylist came near his face. The three-year-old with his eyes fixed on the TV screen, unwilling to look down at his belly, even with the promise of a lollipop if he did. The five-year-old who shyly tugged at my arm and whispered to me to remind the lady that he "doesn't like the water" sprayed on his hair.

I hear echoes of the future, wondering what battles lie before me. He wants to grow it longer, and I think it looks better short. We're disagreeing over style, and maybe even color. I glance back to the present, to the rounded cheeks, and fight back the urge to gather him in my arms and make him swear to me that he won't grow it out too long, or fight me on his curfew. Or break my heart.

I blink back the tears and look away before he can see them. When the stylist finishes, I ask him if he wants a little gel in the front. This is usually the highpoint of his haircut, getting a little product and strutting around like a "cool dude" for the rest of the day. But he smiles and declines. She offers it to him and he says no thank you. "A little water, then," she says, wetting her hands and combing them through his now-shortened locks so that the front stands up just a bit. I expect him to recoil at the touch of the water, but he takes it like a man.

When we exit the shop, I grasp his hand to cross the parking lot to the car. He doesn't pull away as he usually does, and I am grateful. His still-small fingers entwine with my own. I breathe deeply, trying to memorize the moment and the feeling, knowing the next seven years will pass by just as quickly.

Their Taste in Music

Recently, my kids have gotten into music. Finally, we are past the kid music stage. Shalom, Laurie Berkner, G'dday, Wiggles. We even seem to be moving out of the Chipmunks stage, although the shuffle still lands on them occasionally. I have to give some credit where credit is due--our day camp does a great job of Mifkad--morning wake up--where the kids have to get up and dance before they start the day. In the past few years, Mifkad has included Shakira, the Popcorn Song, and other more palatable selections (relative to the Wiggles).

While I still give my kids liberal exposure to musical theater (they have to know their heritage, after all), and nothing warmed my heart more than having my daughter request patter songs from Into the Woods and Kerrigan and Lowdermilk's "Party Dress" or hearing my son sing "Defying Gravity" along with us, it is nice that popular music has enter their sphere of reference. They have a vertiable lexicon now, between Dad's love of 50s, 60s, and soul; my love of 80s and musical theater; and everything they themselves choose. They're comfortable requesting "Green Onions," Dean Martin, Bobby Darin, Queen, music from Glee, Taio Cruz, the Black Eyed Peas, and beyond.

So it is funny when criticize one another for their musical taste. My son's two favorite songs of late are "What Makes You Beautiful" by One Direction and "Party Rock Anthem" by LMFAO. Fortunately, we have the Kids Bop version of "Party Rock" (as well as the Pokemon version--don't ask), so I don't have to worry quite as much about the lyrics. But theses two songs have been in constant rotation in our house. The kids have discovered Spotify and I have to fight to get a song in the lineup. Sam put the music on the other morning before school, and we were treated to two rounds of "Party Rock" before leaving. We got into the car and I overheard the following exchange, which I only picked up about halfway into the conversation:

Syd: No, you won't.
Sam: Yes, I will.
Syd: No, you won't!
Sam: I will too. I will always like them.
Syd: No, in a couple of years you'll be sick of them.

Me: What are we talking about?

Syd: Sam thinks that he is going to like the same songs that he likes now in a couple of years. And I said he won't like them.
Sam: But I will!
Syd: (who is getting increasingly exasperated) Remember how a couple of years ago everyone was into Justin Beaver?
Me: Bieber.
Syd: Right, Beaver. Anyway, remember how he was so big? And then a little while later, everyone was so into Big Time Rush?
Sam: Yes.
Syd: Now everyone likes One Direction and LMFAO. But it will change.
Sam: But I will still like them.
Syd: (shudders slightly) Dude, a few years ago you liked trains.

Oh, the world-weariness she has at nine and the optimism he still has at six!

As much as I enjoy a good "Party Rock," I hope our playlist grows soon. There is only so much LMFAO one can listen to.... Wiggles, anyone?

The Girlfriend

(A conversation between my son--age 6--and me, as I'm tucking him into bed for the night. He has mentioned a few friends, two of whom happen to be girls.)

Me: Is she nice?
Sam: Yes.
Me: Is the other one nice?
Sam: Yes.
Me: Is she cute?
Sam: I don't know.
Me: Is she your girlfriend?
Sam: No. (beat) I guess I need to get one of those.
Me: One of what?
Sam: A girlfriend.
Me: Oh, you have time.
Sam: I do?
Me: Lots of time.
Sam: Like how long?
Me: I don't know. Twenty-five?
Sam: How about eighteen?
Me: That's fine.

Wow, the whole Blogger interface has changed since I last posted. It's gonna take me a while to figure this all out. So much has changed, both inside and outside the blogosphere.

Lots of people (famous and not) have died. Wondering if I should start a list. Isn't there a "celebrity death watch" type list that someone quasi-famous maintains? Now we have to add Donna Summer to the list, along with Whitney Houston. I know there are others; people die every day. I find it interesting that since Whitney's autopsy results were several weeks after the "shock" of her death, they actually received little news coverage. It's old news in the 24/7 news cycle we're all used to. I kinda miss the days of thought and commentary, when there were actual experts on subjects in the news, rather than just talking heads that newscasters cut to to fill the hours. Everyone, it seems, wants to make the news, rather than report on what happened to others. Where do we draw the line?

I listened to Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire" in the doctor's office the other day. Talk about dated. I remember when that song was cutting edge and up to the minute. Guess I'm feeling my age today.

My Little Man(servant)

Scene: Backseat of the car. Random squabbling ensues between six and eight-year old members of family.

Syd: Mom, he's annoying me. Make him stop!

Sam: I'm not doing anything.

Syd: Yes, you are! Stop it!

Sam: No, I'm not!

Me (from the front seat): You know, you two rarely fight. I don't know what's going on back there, but work it out. You usually get along so well. You're lucky that you don't fight so much.

Syd: But he's annoying!

Me: That's what little brothers do! They're annoying! That's their job! I speak from experience. I could tell you stories.... But I won't. I'll spare you.

Sam: Tell! Tell!

Me: No way. I don't want to give you any ammunition. I'll tell Sydney later. But Uncle Jeremy was the King of Annoying Little Brothers. So Sydney, I feel your pain. But this is life. So work it out.

(beat)

Sam: Well, if Uncle Jeremy was the King, I want to be the Butler.

Me: The what?

Sam: The Butler! The Butler of Annoying Little Brothers!

All in the Timing

This evening was a race against the clock--picked up kids from daycare (late), rushed home, baked chicken nuggets in the oven and boiled whole wheat rotini on the stove, chopped up cucumber and filled water glasses. Called them both to the table, reminding them to wash hands on the way over.

We had 30 minutes to scarf dinner, find shoes, and scramble to shul to fulfill our Jewry Duty (pun intended although not mine). It is our week to take Minyan duty and show up for services every evening at 8 p.m. so that if someone has to say Kaddish, there will be a quorum. M and I have split the responsibility; tonight he had a meeting, so I had to take the munchkins with me. And no, they don't count. Not until after Bar/Bat Mitzvah age.

Post-scarfing, we had about 10 minutes before having to depart. I wanted to get through the dishes and wipe the table, knowing I would be even more tired upon our return and would have to deal with bedtime and all its shenanigans. No sooner had the last bite of dessert been consumed, then I was up from the table and at the sink.

Me (to Syd): Bring me your plate and glass, and put away the ketchup please.

Syd: Why do I hafta do everything around here?

Me: I beg your pardon? I believe I just cooked you dinner. All I'm asking you to do is put away the ketchup.

Syd: But I didn't even use it.

Me: Sure you did. On your chicken.

Syd: No I didn't. Daddy must have left it out.

Me: (holding up the plate she has just given me) I'm washing ketchup off your plate right now.

Syd: Fine! I'll put it away! (flounces to fridge and puts ketchup away)

Me: Could you throw away that napkin on the table?

Syd: I need a time out!

Me: (sotto voce) Of course you do.

Sam: I want to help, Mommy.

Me: Thank you, sweetheart. I could use your help. The biggest thing you could do for me right now would be to pick up the noodles you and Syd dropped on the floor.

Sam: Where are they?

Me: On the floor.

Sam: Are there a lot?

Me: Just bend down and pick them up and put them in the bin.

Sam: Actually, Mommy, I think I need a time out too.

Navy Blue

Twenty-one years ago tomorrow, at 8 a.m., the phone on the wall in the kitchen rang, and I picked it up. The caller greeted me briefly and then asked for Dad, who was also in the kitchen, having some coffee. They had an even briefer exchange that finished with, “thank you for letting me know,” and him handing me the receiver to replace in the cradle.

He told me you were gone.

I nodded and tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Emotions in the house had long since been forbidden, although we weren't allowed to tell you that. It had been a somewhat sleepless night, the remnants of the burger I'd attempted to eat the night before at Applebee's churning restlessly in my stomach to the soundtrack of Nona's wailing at your bedside as your fever kept creeping up and your organs shut down. Of course I didn't know that then. I've skimmed the surface of the memory a few times in the past 21 years, afraid to wallow in its depths, of losing myself and becoming that awkward 17-year-old again.

I'm no longer afraid.

I told Dad that I'd let Jeremy know, although why I volunteered to do so is beyond me. I approached his double bed with trepidation, not sure what to say or how to say it, only that I knew I was creating a memory—a horrible one—that we would have to share for the rest of our lives. I echoed Dad's phrase and told Jeremy that you were gone, and he cried. I had a nervous smile that I couldn't shake, which caused me to feel embarrassed and guilty for almost a decade, until I read in a psychology textbook that that was sometimes a normal reaction to delivering bad news.

The memories of the rest of that day are a wash of smell and and color. Your bloated face lying against a stark white bed pillow. The smell of urine that permeated the halls of the nursing home, pungent as I walked that final time to say goodbye. The navy-blue bodybag. The heat of the funeral home.

The sequence unravels somewhat after what I can logically impose as a grown-up, knowing what I know about what happens when there is a “death in the family.” I know we all got dressed. I know we drove to the nursing home to say goodbye. I know we went on a long drive to the funeral home—this was before Weil followed the Jews to the northeast part of Cincinnati—to plan the funeral itself and to learn what would happen. I know that Uncle Jack and Uncle Matt were there for part, or maybe all, of the day.

Oh god, and I had to buy shoes. I had forgotten about that. After all the planning was over, I had to go to the mall, of all things. I had had nothing to wear to the funeral, and I couldn't very well ask you, “Hey, Mom, what should I wear to your funeral in a few weeks?” Fortunately, Margaret was either back from Luxembourg or hadn't left yet, so we attacked the mall and she helped me find a navy suit. It was the first suit I ever owned. It had a peplum, which was so “in” back then, and four large blue-and-gold buttons. The skirt was a little long and the waist was a little snug, but as I knew I wasn't going to have much time, it was going to have to do. I can't remember if I had it altered, and as it has long since made it to another woman's closet, I have no way of verifying.

But I possessed no navy shoes. I had red and yellow flats, courtesy of Bat Mitzvahs in the mid-1980s. I had black shoes. I had white Keds, thanks to showchoir. I even had black character shoes. But nothing that would go with a navy suit.

I had been working at the JCC that summer, and was filling my evenings with a summer production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat—anything to escape the reality of what was going on with you. I hadn't had time—hadn't made time—to buy shoes. So I found myself at the mall on the day you died, frantically searching for navy shoes to match my new, almost-fitting suit.

Within five minutes of being there, I had run into Marla Sudman, one of my co-counselors from camp. She immediately asked how you were, and I was faced with a quandary. Should I lie and say that you were “hanging in there”? Or should I tell her that you had died that morning? If I told the truth, how would that make me look, being at the mall on the day my mom died? But if I lied, and the truth came out later, which it inevitably would, then I would have to explain why I lied. Why did I have to run into her? And why I had waited so long to get shoes? And why was this happening to me?

I told her that you had died that morning, and explained my dilemma about the shoes. Rather than judge (What sane person would judge? the grown-up me wants to interject here), she expressed her condolences, asked if there was anything she could do, and directed me toward Pappagallo for shoes. I thanked her and made a beeline for the store, hoping to enter and exit without running into anyone else I knew.

I found navy shoes in Pappagallo for $75—they were the most expensive shoes I'd ever bought, but I figured I didn't have much choice. It was the closest store to where I'd parked and I didn't want to go any farther into the mall than I had to. I wrote a check, tucked the box under my arm, and headed out the door.

The shoes had clip-on accessories—that had been one of the saleslady's selling points. One set were bows and the other rosettes. I wore the rosettes to the funeral, as the bows seemed too festive, but the teeth that clipped them to the shoes ended up snagging my pantyhose and digging into my feet—definitely a design flaw.

You would have steered me better. You would have taken me to L.S. Ayres or Lazarus and had me try on a dozen pairs, walk in them all, and asked me which was the most comfortable. You would have told me that neither the bows nor the rosettes were appropriate for a funeral. You would have probably insisted that we shop for the shoes at the same time as the suit, even if I was tired, to make sure that we got a good match, since the shades of navy can be so different. And you probably would have had a purse I could have borrowed.

Despite the shoe faux pas 21 years ago, I have learned, Mom. We have a wedding to go to in a couple of weeks. I bought a navy dress. I found silver-gray sandals that look just lovely with it, and I found a purse on sale at Marshall's (you would love Marshall's, it's just like T.J. Maxx) to match. I know what jewelry I'm going to wear, and I've got a little wrap in case it gets chilly, even though it's August and we're in the middle of an insane heat wave. I know, I know, you never know.

I hear echoes of your laugh in my laugh, you know. It catches me off-guard, but it no longer makes me sad. I'm happy that I carry a piece of you with me, and that piece of you comes out at the moments when I'm the most unguarded, the happiest, the most carefree.

Twenty-one years feels like a lifetime ago in some ways. So much has happened since then, it would take the rest of my life to fill you in, and then I'd miss what's going on right now. So instead I pause on this anniversary and acknowledge the gifts you gave me—life, unconditional love, and others too many to name—and say thank you. I miss you and I love you.

From Harry Potter to News of the World

“So Mom,” my eight-year-old daughter queried from the back seat of the car. “Is Rita Skeeter evil, or is she just, like, doing bad stuff?”

My daughter has been listening to Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on CD for the past few months. We read the first three books in the series aloud together, but apparently, I wasn't quick enough for her on the fourth book. And really, despite my best efforts, who can compete with Jim Dale?

After being subjected to her begging and begging, I allowed her to watch the fourth film one day early this summer. We had seen the first three, the pattern being after we finished one book, we would watch the film together. Goblet on film proved to be a bit much—not because (spoiler alert) Cedric dies, but because she didn't much like having to watch Brendan Gleeson's rolling magical eye. I can't say that I blame her.

But her queasiness for the effect did not dampen her love of the story, and despite having finished listening to the tale at least once already, she has returned to the beginning and is having another go. Occasionally questions surface about plot details: “Was the Moody Dumbledore met at the beginning of the term at Hogwarts the real Moody?” and sometimes she's analyzing things on a deeper level, such as wondering what makes Rita Skeeter tick.

I immediately jumped into English teacher mode and turned the question back to her. “Well, what do you think, Syd? Do you think she's really evil? Or do you think she's just doing bad stuff and making bad choices?”

There was silence and I waited. I waited a while, and I remembered that she was only eight, and that wait time in elementary school is infinitely longer than in high school. And I felt fortunate that I didn't have to rush her along because there were 19 other students in the classroom, competing for my attention, exhibiting off-task behavior, or doodling in books.

“Well,” she said, finally, “I think she was just doing bad stuff. Making bad choices.”

“Interesting,” I responded, wondering how long I could stretch out this literary discussion without her losing interest. “Why?”

“I'm not sure,” she said, after a few seconds. “But didn't she put a spell on her Quick Quotes Quill? So it wasn't really her making bad choices?”

Hmm, I thought. Very literal interpretation. But she's eight.

“That's one way to look at it,” I said. “And I would tend to agree with you—I don't think she's evil.” I left out the diatribe about whether characters (and people) could be purely evil for the moment, as I don't think I can really get into that with an elementary-aged student. “But I do think that Rita will do anything to get the story. And that's where she gets in trouble.”

“Like where she knew about Hagrid? And no one knew how she knew about Hagrid?” Syd queried.

“Exactly. How did she know about Hagrid?”

There was silence, and I wasn't sure if my daughter didn't remember the plot, or didn't put two and two together. “Well,” I said, putting my teacher hat back on. “What's her full name?”

“Rita Skeeter,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “Do you know what 'Skeeter' is short for?”

“No,” she said.

I sighed ever so slightly. This is where her being too young for the series comes in sometimes.

“It's a nickname for a mosquito. Do you remember at the end of the story? Hermione figures out that Rita Skeeter can transform herself into a mosquito. And that's how she knows about Hagrid—she was a mosquito at the time, so she was able to buzz around and overhear him talking to Madame Maxine.”

“Oh,” she said. “I get it.”

But I wasn't sure if she did. After all, she does fall asleep to the CDs, and Hermione's revelation comes near the end of the novel. Maybe she'll hear it on her next time through, now that she knows what to listen for.

I decided to try for one more angle. “Rita Skeeter is a journalist, Sydney. Do you know what that means?”

“I know what a journalist is!” she retorted.

“Okay, okay!” I laughed.

“And you know how journalists always have to tell stories, right?”

I looked in the rearview mirror and saw her nod.

“Well, there are right ways and wrong ways to go about getting a story. It's called 'ethics,' and it has to do with how a journalist gets the information for her story. Rita Skeeter did it the wrong way.”

“Like with the quill? When it wrote down the things that didn't happen?”

“Exactly. She made things up, and she listened in to conversations that she wasn't supposed to. And I think that J.K. Rowling....”

“Rowling.” Here she corrected my pronunciation, and I had to laugh.

“Rowling, by this point in writing the series, was so tired of journalists making things up about her, or taking one little story and blowing it way out of proportion, that she invented Rita Skeeter to get back at them. To poke a little fun at them. Do you get it?”

“Yeah.”

“So is Rita evil, Sydney?”

“No, I don't think so.”

We sat for a moment, digesting all of this, and then I decided to push my luck one more time. “You know, there is a story in the news right now about journalists getting information in an unethical way. In England. A newspaper—a tabloid—just shut down because some of the people who work there hacked into people's cell phones.”

“What do you mean, 'hacked'?”

“Like, listened into, without permission.”

“How did they do that?” she asked.

“I have no idea, and to be honest, I don't want to know, because I would never do anything like that.”

“What did they hear?”

“Who knows?” I said, not liking the direction the discussion was taking, but trying to roll with it. “Maybe what color shoes Miley Cyrus was wearing, or where somebody else famous was getting coffee.” I certainly wasn't going to give her details about what Rupert Murdoch's employees intercepted about a slain 13-year-old girl. “The point is, they didn't get their information in an ethical way, and now the newspaper is shutting down. Done. Finito. Kaput.”

“Why does anyone care what color shoes Mily Cyrus wears?”

“Exactly,” I said, exhaling. I didn't realize I had been holding my breath. “I don't know. But some people do care about those things. Some people care about what famous people are wearing and who they are dating. And they want to see pictures of those people. And that's what Rita Skeeter was representing.”

She was quiet for a moment, as traffic picked up a little and we crawled somewhat closer to our destination.

“Are we there yet, Mom?” she asked.

“Oh, I think so,” I said, smiling at her in the rearview mirror. “We've definitely arrived.”

so clearly i've had a lot to say

the crickets have been chirping for several months now, it would appear.

i have been reading up a storm, however. it feels like a sort-of cop out to just review instead of write, so i will scratch the critic's itch by saying, "go now to your neighborhood bookstore or kindle or nook and download/buy/freeview The Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins." see? it's so important, i gave it capital letters even. so good. page turning. i read all three in about five days. no kidding. true, i was sick and in bed for four of them, and i read one of them on my phone, but to quote a pint-sized heroine my kids favor, "wowie, wow, wow." good stuff. nail-biting, edge-of-your-seat, what's-going-to-happen, who's-going-to-die, who's-she-going-to-kiss stuff.

i also watched twilight (the first one) again. i was indulging my inner teenager. so sue me. ah edward. your hair is so yummy. it would probably stick to my fingers, but ahhhhhhh. it's a ridiculous film. and they get more ridiculous as they go on--i actually laughed out loud in the theater several times when i saw eclipse. but it's eye-candy.

let's see. i also watched he's just not that into you, which i hadn't remembered seeing until about halfway in, and then, once i remembered seeing, i couldn't remember the end of it. i probably fell asleep. i have a queue of others i'd like to see that are definite chick flicks, but i was slightly delirious so i went in for fluffy, not weepy. can't do anything weepy at the moment.

i have knowing out from netflix. nic cage. it looks good but i've been told it's scary, so now i'm afraid to watch it.

see? i'm doing it again. procrastinating. i edited earlier today. i did, honestly. about 13 pages. of the poker manuscript. but i was not so happy with what i found. it's pretty crap, actually. lots of telling, with not so much showing. i'm worried that by the time i cut out all the telling, there won't be much of a manuscript left. but i did write the whole thing in a month, so it's bound to be a bit shit, really. i have to cut myself some slack. maybe two plus years literally in the drawer was exactly what it needed. but frankly, it's a little boring. maybe i'm bored of the concept. maybe i should just find one or two really good sentences and write from those--turn those into something else it can't be 100 pages of crap, can it? or maybe i'm just so used to editing now, i have a much more critical eye.

it's very hard to go back to writing after reading critically and editing for the past two and a half years. i swear i'm not making excuses. there are two halves of the brain, and editing is definitely way on the other side from writing. which is good, i guess, meaning that they won't get in each other's way. but bad because my writing side is WAY out of practice.

ah well. what did valerie say on our writers' panel? butt+pen+chair=book. one page at a time. leave off in the middle of a...

cross blogging

Trying to stay positive. It's hard on a succession of gray rainy days.
I posted on my other, once-every-six-months-or-a-year blog today instead:

Gratitude

work

ihateithere
ihateithere
ihateithere
ihateithere
ihateithere

WORD to your sistah

Man oh man has this chica got a good thing going on....
I wish I had time to do something similar with my blog. But that would involve specializing, instead of being a repository for all things that fallout from my brain.
Hmmm.
Something to muse on....

failure

Today feels like failure on multiple levels.

I actually had to leave the office because the noise was too much. A loud person on a conference call less than 18 inches from me--my headphones and white noise didn't do the trick. I felt like clawing out my eyes. So I am home, listening to the hum of the computers instead. Much more peaceful but I miss the camaraderie of the office.

It has been suggested to me that my increased noise sensitivity could be migraine-related. I have seen somewhat of a correlation between noise bothering me and then getting a migraine a day or two later. I am trying to track this pattern.

It will be a bitter pill, spending $300 on the latest noise-cancelling headphones (Bose Q15), but I might just have to in order to function at work. Lunchtime regularly makes me feel like I could climb the walls. All that crunching.... I hate crunchy foods. They taste good, but I hate the noise I make when I eat them, let alone when others do. The other day I got all over DH for eating grapes too loudly. I now know that I have a problem. I really do want to get better. I just have to figure out how.

What I Read in 2010

I decided to add the newest ones to the top, rather than the bottom, to save scrolling for frequent (ahem) readers. Duh. Blog architecture 101. 

In the interest of trying to keep an updated list before the next year starts (ha!), here is what I have read so far:

29. Worst Case by James Patterson and Michael Ledwidge. A good thriller but ultimately forgettable. Everything is starting to look the same by Patterson. Maybe it's time to find a new thriller author to read.

28. The Year of Living Biblically by A.J. Jacobs. Jacobs has again mined the depth of his waking mind to deliver a memoir that is worth reading and worth, in fact, digesting. After the success of reading the Encyclopedia from cover to cover, Jacobs decides he needs a new quest, and sets out to live by the Bible for one year. He visits various evangelical and liberal sects of differing religions--from the Hasidic Jews in Brooklyn to snake handlers in some place I'm too lazy to look up at the moment. He spends nine months in the Old Testament (or Hebrew Bible) and three in the New. In his quest of checking off commandments, Jacobs finds himself transformed from self-effacing "clueless agnostic" to reverent agnostic, and his journey enlightens--himself and his readers.

27. Juliet, Naked by Nick Hornby. A little on the slow side to start but overall a good read. Hornby does well enough getting inside an almost-forty-year-old's mind, and captures Duncan, the protagonist's not-husband, and all his quirks with a practiced hand. The plot, while more than implausible, is clever. Since I always struggle with plot in my own writing, I wanted to file away the device he used to bring two unlike characters together to reappropriate in some form in my own work, if need be. I wish there had been a soundtrack to go along with the book. The echoes of music I have yet to hear emanated in my mind as I read and I kept wanting to load them up on my ipod, to really see which one of the couple I would have agreed with, and why.

26. Street Gang: The Complete History of Sesame Street by Michael Davis. This is more of an intellectual look at how the program came to be, as well as biographical information about lots of key stakeholders behind the scenes, rather than a pop-culture look at the history of the program. I was intrigued by how many of the production and management teams came from Captain Kangaroo, and I didn't know that Noggin, which has now unfortunately merged with Nickelodeon, was a CTW channel. I didn't feel like there was quite enough Henson in the book; and the resolution of the Disney/Muppet ownership rights fell flat. It was built up as an epic struggle and then somewhat summarily dismissed. Joan Ganz Cooney comes out looking like she could do no wrong, but I'm sure some of the other team members would have loved to have given their two cents (sadly, many have died in the past two decades--who knew?). I can see how Zoe was a contrived creation and was not allowed a genesis similar to her older muppet counterparts. I wanted more about Kevin Clash... but I guess there's a book for that.

25. Chasing Harry Winston by Lauren Weisberger. Pure, unadulterated brain candy, but just what I needed to escape from my life for 48 hours. I liked this one as much as The Devil Wears Prada, and it was much better than Everyone Worth Knowing. Predictable, of course, but seeing how the predictability played out was fun. And I love that her characters use "fuck" as much as I do.

24. Julie and Julia by Julie Powell. I watched the movie a few weeks ago and I was curious about the source material. Several people saw me reading the book and asked me my opinion. I hate turning people off to reading--reading anything--but I wanted to be honest. And I honestly thought the movie was better. Julie wasn't a truly likeable "character" in the book (as much as one can be a character in a memoir). She fared much better in the movie version of her life (and who wouldn't?). I wanted to like it, I really really did, especially since I liked the film a lot. But it left me a little cold. Maybe if I had read it as a blog, as she was writing it. It did make me question the supposed-new genre of "blog fiction" that seems to be in the back of every writer's mind. Not all blogs will translate well to larger works of fiction, and I think that is something the Big Six need to keep in mind when they are shopping in the near future.

23. Kabbalah: A Love Story by Rabbi Lawrence Kushner. I started and couldn't finish. It had to go back to the library and I wasn't sad enough to see it go to find it on paperbackswap. Interesting premise of a plot, but a little too "preachy" for fiction.

22. The Guynd by Belinda Rathbone. A little slow to start, but a well-written memoir of an ex-pat who moves to Scotland with her boyfriend, a laird. She learns that loving the man means also loving his family home and the quirks of class life in Scotland. It gives new meaning to the phrase "house-poor."

21. A Little Bit Wicked: Life, Love, and Faith in Stages by Kristin Chenoweth and Joni Rodgers. Just started this one today. It's cute and chatty, and gives some insight into Chenoweth's background and choices in her career thus far. I'm sure it won't be earth-shattering, but it should be an entertaining read.
ETA: entertaining; decent insight into the whole Studio Sixty on the Sunset Strip debacle of Chenoweth on The 700 Club. And like the clueless idiot I am, I had no idea she dated/dates Aaron Sorkin.

20. The Boleyn Inheritance by Philippa Gregory--better than The Other Queen. Gregory did a much better job developing three distinct but believable voices in this one. The first person POV didn't bother me in this one. Definitely a page-turner.

19. The Other Queen by Philippa Gregory--this was my least favorite of the historical fiction I have read by Gregory so far. The novel rotates between three narrators--George, the Earl of Shrewsbury; Bess, a new-monied lady who married George (he is her fourth husband); and Mary Queen of Scots, the ousted queen who vied for the English throne while Elizabeth I held it. The voices are definitive in a trite kind of way, and I just felt that the story was plodding along. Gregory employs first person and it is tiresome to read for so many pages. Admittedly it works well in some of her other novels, but not this one.

18. The Virgin's Lover by Philippa Gregory--more bodice-ripping, albeit with historical implications. Now I'd like to find out how much of the Elizabeth I loved Robert Dudley and was counseled by William Cecil is true. Guess I need to find a good biography to read. Gregory lists some source materials in her bibliography, and one of them is by Alison Weir, whose stuff I have read before and liked. I thought, however, that it was all fictional. I'll have to take another look. Interesting folks, those Tudors.

17. Fool by Christopher Moore--Oh the irony of reading two foolish books one after the other while on holiday in London. This was a phenomenal read. I think Moore is so clever; that I love Shakespeare only served to augment my amusement. Regan as a complete slut, Goneril as overweight and overwrought, Cordelia as conniving, and France and Burgundy as gay lovers. Oh my stars, what a romp!

16. The Queen's Fool by Philippa Gregory--well, I was going to say a bodice-ripper in historical fiction duds, but I think that's a bit redundant. I am such a sucker for historical fiction. This did not disappoint. I enjoyed that the main character was Jewish, and the portrayal of England becoming Catholic, then Anglican/Protestant, then Catholic, etc., was very enlightening. I think I finally get it now.

15. Limitations by Scott Turow--see, here's my problem with Scott Turow. I often think I have found a new book by him and start to read it, only to realize I have read it before. Sometimes I get to the end and realize, no, this is actually a new story. Sometimes I read to the end and confirm, oh yes, I remember this twist. Still other times I read and I remember some of the characters but not the plot, and at the end I'm not sure if I've read it already or not. It's a little annoying. I don't think his books have gotten more interesting as he's gotten more seasoned. I do like the ones that feature Sandy Stern more than the others. This one was okay. Short and sweet, but I kept having the impression I'd read it before and when I finished it, I still wasn't sure if I had.

14. Mirror, Mirror by Gregory Maguire--very slow to start but an interesting twist on the typical Snow White tale. I didn't like it as much as Wicked and Son of a Witch.

13. Disobedience by Jane Hamilton--I've tried this twice and just can't get into it. Maybe it's the author's note in the beginning, forecasting the story for me. Maybe it's the unrealistic 17-year-old boy narrator's voice (sorry, Ms. Hamilton). Or maybe it's just that the characters are annoying. I can't find anything redeeming in what I've read so far and I have no desire to continue. And that's big for me. It's rare that I don't finish a book.

12. The Hotel at the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford--this was a great find. I think I heard Ford on NPR sometime and decided to read the book based on his interview. It was a fascinating for me to read about the prejudices between Japanese and Chinese immigrants (even in a fictionalized way) in the 1940s during the time of the Japanese internment in the U.S. I had no idea such tensions even existed, or if I ever knew, I had definitely forgotten. The politics don't get in the way of the story, though, which is important. And Ford doesn't take sides or preach. I wish I could meet Henry, Sheldon, and Keiko and give them all hugs.

11. Eden Close by Anita Shreve--very slow to start but got interesting halfway through. Definitely "women's literature."

10. Service Included: Four-Star Secrets of an Eavesdropping Waiter by Phoebe Damrosch--succulent and juicy. It's a play-by-play of being hired, trained at, backserving, and serving at a four-star restaurant in NYC. Fascinating stuff, even for someone like me who never waited tables.

9. Three Cups of Tea: One Man's Mission to Promote Peace... One School at a Time by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin--I approached this one with trepidation, despite having heard the co-authors speak at the Dayton Peace Prize awards a couple of years ago. I wasn't sure I wanted the "heavy-heavy" of a true story about girls in Pakistan. I was expecting graphic blow-by-blows of physical violence against girls, and how they struggle to achieve any sort of life in a repressive society. I could not have been more wrong. Mortenson and Relin frame the journey around Mortenson's climbing adventures. I have never been remotely interested in climbing mountains. The journey opens with Mortenson's failure on K2, and the "ephiphanic moment" (thanks A.M. Foley) he has barely making it back down the mountain alive. He makes a promise and takes a hell of a long time to keep it, but the way he does is amazing. The book also shed some light on the conflict in Afghanistan and the U.S. involvement in it. That was helpful to me. I was afraid of encountering words like "infidel" and "mujahadeen" but I learned a little more about why insurgents turn to extremism. It was a thought-provoking journey--one that I encourage everyone to make along with Mortenson.

8. The Piano Shop on the Left Bank by Thad Carhart--part memoir, part "ode to joy," Carhart combines two of my favorite entities--music and Paris. I seem to be reading a lot of American expats in France (from last year's list and this year's). If I had to complain about anything, it would be that the memoir parts are not seamlessly integrated into the technical parts about pianos themselves. I definitely received a good background on different piano manufacturers and their pros and cons (but in an interesting way). His portrait of Luc, the man who inherits the atelier to restore the pianos, is exquisitely drawn. If nothing else, the tome makes me want to get off my duff, find a decent secondhand or restored piano, and get back to it. The descriptions of musical technique made me miss my voice lessons terribly. I know what Carhart means when he describes elements of musical creation, where you're present but not, and the music takes over. It looks and sounds effortless if it's done right, and the techinque falls away, allowing you to fly on your own voice (or keyboard). Trying to decide whether it's a good one to loan my father, an avocational pianist and clarinetist. He might find it tedious. I'll offer. If you love music, or Paris, or both, seek it out.

7. Home: A Memoir of My Early Years by Julie Andrews--a somewhat interesting, somewhat indulgent read. Andrews had an interesting early life. I was disappointed that the memoir only covered up until she was cast as Mary Poppins (lots of My Fair Lady on both sides of the Atlantic, and on Camelot). Maybe there will be sequel, or a second volume. And I have to see, reading Andrews' euphemisms for female anatomy, reproduction, and menstruation are just funny. She is just as delicate as she appears to be.

6. Her Fearful Symmetry by Audrey Niffenegger--I really liked this one. It was sad and creepy and heart-warming and weird, all at the same time. Definitely a page-turner. It felt different from The Time Traveler's Wife, which was hyped to me and was okay, in my opinion, but not phenomenal. I was a little disappointed in the ending--saw the first twist coming, but not the second one.

5. The Guinea Pig Diaries by A.J. Jacobs--so freaking funny. Seriously, he has inspired me to try to be more in the moment in my daily life. I won't go as far as saying "I am brushing my teeth. I am rinsing my mouth," as he does, but still. Mindfulness is helpful when it all comes crashing down around you.


4. The Lady and the Unicorn by Tracy Chevalier--another quick read. Nice stationary bike fodder. If I had read one more reference to "plowing" a woman, however, I would have set the damn thing on fire. Not sure if I like her writing from a male perspective. I also now realize that she is essentially a romance writer with a small attempt at higher-brow fiction by being historical in nature. I probably won't read any more Chevalier unless someone highly recommends a book by her.

3. A Wolf at the Table by Augusten Burroughs--I haven't finished and I can't decide if I'm going to. It's fairly depressing and I can just feel where it's going, and I don't know if I can stomach it. It's a little like why I've avoided Dave Pelzer and most of Mary Kerr.

2. Dave Barry Slept Here by Dave Berry--meh. Funny in places, especially since I somewhat-recently edited an American history textbook. He was funniest when he wasn't trying so hard to be funny. I'll probably hold onto it as long as I'm editing history curriculum, just to keep a sense of humor about the seriousness of "women and minority" contributions.

1. Girl With a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier--quick read. Not as predictable as I thought it would be. Intriguing story. I'm a sucker for good historical fiction.

I am going to keep updating throughout the year... stay tuned!